


Us that Remain

by popsiclestick



Series: Post Island Arc [1]
Category: Lord of the Flies - William Golding
Genre: Gen, Post-Lord of the Flies
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-02-10
Updated: 2015-10-12
Packaged: 2018-03-11 13:49:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 11
Words: 12,726
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3328676
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/popsiclestick/pseuds/popsiclestick
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <em>Ice pulsed through his veins as he realised the hunt had never ended.</em>
  <br/>
  <em>It had just begun.</em>
</p><p> </p><p>As the war between East and West rages on, so does the fight between former friends; sides are chosen, old enemies return, and past comes back to haunt the survivors.</p><p>Ralph has been called to join the Navy, like his father before him - he's tried to put the events of a decade ago behind him, and has almost suceeded. Almost.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. PROLOGUE

**Author's Note:**

> HEY so this is the first fic I'm posting here, and obviously it'd turn out to be post island. I'm going to try and avoid cliches, though at some points it's gonna be pretty unavoidable! I'm following the story mainly through Ralph and Jack, though other characters will turn up at points, too. The main part's 10 years after the island, the prologue is earlier - 2 years after.
> 
> Please leave a comment!
> 
> (also thanks to Marcus for the title idea, bless u)

‘Pass the sugar, would you?’ His father extended an arm from behind his broadsheet.

Ralph said nothing. He didn’t understand why his father had to wear his full uniform at breakfast. His new placement at Portsmouth wasn’t until tomorrow - today, they were to make the journey.

Not for the first time, Ralph wished his father had a normal job.

‘Ralph?’ The crisp white glove was still there, waiting. Ralph sighed, and passed the sugar.

The wireless in the background provided a amicable hubbub in the bright kitchen, softening some of the stilted atmosphere. Since the bomb on Birmingham, the government had given up with the war updates, and kept to propaganda and upbeat music. Currently, the small box was declaring the evils of Soviet imports, and how to avoid them, which, seeing as the country had banned them anyway, seemed pointless. In recent years, Great Britain had become something of a shut in. His father paused, his wrist resting elegantly on the edge of the table.

His father treated normal actions as is if he was performing complex surgery. He was an efficient man, and his precise actions served only to optimise whatever goal to he was trying to achieve. Ralph could only imagine it was a trait rubbed off from his mother. Apparently, he had loved her once.

He picked at his toast, but found, as usual, that the dry bread had lacked appeal. He’d eaten little over the past few years, a lack of appetite that matched his lack of sleep and affected him to the point that caused others to question his health. The mirror was something to be avoided now; Ralph knew how he looked. The gaunt face and dark circles, framing sunken eyes, said all.

His father coughed, and Ralph looked up from his half eaten toast.

‘I’ve been thinking,’ he said around his paper, ‘about your education. You’re what - thirteen-’

‘Fourteen.’

‘Fourteen years old. You’re becoming a man! It’s time you started thinking about what you want to do.’

‘What do you mean?’

His father put down his paper, and for the first time in a very long time, looked at the boy in front of him. Remarkable, really - the sad looking weed gazing at him with large, bloodshot eyes from one too many restless nights looked nothing like the laughing boy he’d known two years ago. Not that he’d seen him much since then, but to him, it was a fair approximation. The boy seemed to have shot up, though.

‘What you want to do. In life,’ he said. The chatter of the wireless expanded to fill the silence, which seemed to permeate everything. ‘And I’ve been thinking some more. And I thought it may do you some good to see what I do.’

He folded his paper, and laced his gloved hands, gazing at his son with an expression he hoped was appealing. ‘I think you should join up.’

Ralph’s mouth became dry, his heart thumping - he’d known for years that this was a possibility, but he’d never - or tried not to give it too much thought and now, now this was real. He felt cold sweat on his back, his fingertips white on the tabletop.

‘I-I-'

His father smiled. ‘I know the thought’s daunting. That’s why I’m telling you now.’ He leaned forward, hands still neatly folded over his paper, a paper that was full of lies and useless propaganda, and said in a lower tone, ‘We’re losing the war. We need fresh blood like you to help us win back our losses. The Navy alone is making a loss of several hundred a month.’

Ralph swallowed.

‘You’ll want to do your bit for queen and country, I’m sure.’ The man eased back in his seat, resuming his bright countenance. ‘You’ll have a jolly good time of it, too! Fighting the Russians! Reminds me of my lieutenant days.’ He looked at his son. The boy seemed to be in a state of shock.

‘I’m enrolling you in the sea cadets. You’ll be ready to join properly by eighteen. You’ll enjoy it.’ Gathering up his paper and crockery, he left his breakfast things on the side, shrugged on his official coat, and stepped outside, making a last glance at his speechless son staring at him with wide eyes, still hunched over a half eaten piece of toast.


	2. City of Ghosts

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The story gets underway! Please excuse any naval/government inaccuracies, I tried to keep this as accurate as I can but the internet can only do so much!
> 
> music: shadows - woodkid

EIGHT YEARS LATER

 

The night was looming fast now, and London was laced with the golden evening light, a final burial shroud for the winter death march that would soon make the city still darker and greyer than before.

The estuary fog that often smothered the city drew nearer, creeping between the folds of Ralph’s coat, tendrils catching in his fair hair as he stepped off the bridge that connected the ship to harbourside. His boots tapped against the slabs as he turned back to the boat, a vast nautical fortress lit up like a beacon from the inside.

Inside several of the blazing windows he could see men hurrying about their duty; it would be several hours before they were allowed to alight for leave. Ralph, however, had got off early - a wad of notes under the commander’s desk had assured him of that. And besides, there was someone he needed to see.

Ralph was a hunched shape in the muted light as he made his way through deserted streets, his rhythmic footfalls the only noise in the expanse of snow dusted concrete.

After its recent declaration as a fallout zone, most of the city’s population had been evacuated to refugee camps overseas; and now London was a ghost town, an eerie shell of the city it once was. If the trains had been operational, Ralph would have taken a line straight to Greenwich, but now the underground network was a maze of abandoned tracks which he was in no mood to explore. Who knew who, or what, lived down there now. Better to make the long journey above ground. A wintry breeze caused him to shiver, and he buttoned up his long coat, steeling himself for the long walk ahead.

 

⚓

 

'Yes, we will, Sir, no need to worry.'

A pause.

The speaker rubbed a pale hand over his face as he said, ‘Of course. We aim to have it on the ship by ten at the latest. I believe you will find this satisfactory.’

Another pause, and then: ‘Very good, Sir. Of course.’

The click of the receiver permeated the silence as the pale man leaned back in his chair and took out his papers. Several reports from the dockyard detailing the ‘conveyance of eighteen cases of supplies’ to the cargo area, and one from Downing Street outlining the details of tomorrow’s military parade. Originally intended as a morale booster for the country during the early years of the war, the display of military might had become redundant as the fight progressed; had the military any might left it may have meant something more.

Years of fighting against the Soviet forces had left the armed forces depleted. Desperation was running high. He’d managed to buy and cheat his way into the government, holding enough sway with the people with empty promises of peace - at least, the remainder of the population that weren’t too scared to step outside - to effectively run the war from behind the façade of the elderly Minister for Defence.

Of course, this now meant that the multitude of petty affairs that had once been dealt with by the old Minister had now, naturally, been dumped on him.

None of the papers caught his interest, so he brushed them aside and picked up the telephone again, then began to dial a number.

‘Hello? Is this the sanatorium? I’d like to speak to the matron.’

Weak evening light from the window caught his hair, illuminating the copper strands as he ran his fingertips through them. His sharp blue eyes flicked to the file in front of him.

‘Yes. It’s about patient three-six-two.’

An anxious figure hovered in the doorway.

‘Sir? Is everything all right?’

Yes, everything was quite all right - perfect even, if all went to plan.

The aide waited a few cautious seconds, then tried a second time. ‘Sir?’

Jack Merridew dismissed the aide with a wave and grinned, a smile which didn’t match his eyes.

‘I’d like to pay him a visit.’


	3. War Reports

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> yo so Evie is an OC, she doesn't appear much in this story, but she's pretty important at the beginning. Again, please leave a comment! (also, the reference to the dead brother is another OC I have, but I'll post that fic another day hA Hh a)
> 
> music: winter - daughter

Ralph paused, his fist ready to knock on the door to the tiny house. Was this the right time? By all standards, most people would be in bed by now - people that were left, anyway.

He stood on the step of a small terrace, on a thin street lined by hundreds of others like it, a monotony that only ceased as the far houses faded into the darkness. The only difference being that this one was inhabited. Ralph stood alone in the pool of light from the window, his breath forming a cloud that dissipated into the dark. 

Should he do this? _I've come all this way_.

He took a breath, and knocked on the door.

'Ralph!'

He was greeted by a pair of anxious brown eyes belonging to a thin-faced girl, who fumbled with the door chain, pulling back several locking mechanisms with a multitude of clicking noises. 'Is it really you?'

Suddenly, he found himself staggering as the girl flung her arms around him. Her wet cheek pressed against his chest.

'I -' her voice was muffled. 'I thought you were dead! They said the death toll reached over six hundred! I've been cooped up here worried sick - why did you have to terrify me like that? We were told - were told -' she shook silently against Ralph, who wiped away her tears with his scarf.

   'It was more like two hundred, Evie.' he said. 'They weren't even from my fleet.' He tried to rearrange his features into what he hoped was a comforting expression, which, judging by Evie’s look, had no effect.

Evie scrunched her face. 'The wireless must've been wrong. I've never heard it making things sound worse before.'

Ralph shrugged off his coat, the lie a lump in his throat which he tried to ignore. He stepped around the girl, into the bright hallway, and hung it, along with his cap, and flattened himself to the wall to allow his fianceé to bustle past. He trudged after her into the tiny kitchen. The wireless supplied a constant hubbub of comforting noise which Ralph took gratefully, sinking into the spindly kitchen chair. The yellow light was reassuring, so opposed to the endless grey days of the ship.

‘Any more news? Being stuck on a warship pulls you out the loop.' He didn't mention the sleepless nights, or the silence that preceded him whenever he entered a room. He was the one with the dead brother, the son of parents that didn't want him, the one who woke up in a sweat with a head filled with jungle and blood and spears and death.

The once proud chief was a broken shell.

Evie looked up from the sink. ‘No.’ She sighed. ‘The papers tell us hardly anything. The wireless is barely any better.’

Ralph fiddled with the rough surface of the tablecloth. The coarse fabric between his fingers felt real, solid. He tried to bring his thoughts back from the shadows where they so often strayed. ‘Did you hear about tomorrow?’

Evie’s slight jaw tightened. ‘I did. I’d rather it if you didn’t go.’

Ralph winced. ‘I can’t not, Evie. The parade needs to happen. They can’t do without a lieutenant.’

The warbling singer in the background was cut off as the scheduled war bulletin began.

Evie frowned at the dish she was holding. ‘But -’

‘I need to.’

Her face was turned away. ‘Ralph. You’ve been away for months. _Months_. And all that time -’ she took a shuddering breath, ‘- all that time, I had no idea if you were alive or dead.’ From his seat at the kitchen table, Ralph could see her shoulders begin to tremble. His fingers clutched the tablecloth. Evie continued as Ralph got up, and gently, cautiously, put his arms around her waist.

‘Do you know what it’s like? Here on my own? For days and days and _days_ alone here, in this tiny house, on this empty street, and Ralph, I almost went mad. I almost lost my mind. I couldn’t carry on like this, Ralph, I -’ Her words broke down into messy sobs as Ralph pulled her close, her face pressed against his warm chest. He could feel her heart through the flimsy fabric of her dress, and he pulled back to look at her, her face framed in his bruised fingers. She threaded her soapy fingers through his hair, gently pulling his face down to hers. Her breath felt warm on his still cold cheek.

'Ralph. Just one day. Stay here.'

With difficulty, he steeled himself. 'I can't.'

Evie looked away, her pale eyelashes wet. 'Alright.' She pulled herself away, and leaned on the scrubbed counter. 'Alright. Just come back as soon as you can.'

Ralph avoided her gaze. 'I'll try.'

  
  
  
  
  



	4. Old Friends

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> in which we learn jack uses some unorthodox methods to get what he wants
> 
> music: lifeforms - daughter

The halls reverberated with the sound of sharp footsteps as the tall figure made his way through the asylum. Moving swiftly past bustling nurses, visitors, and the odd unsupervised patient - _did this place even have security?_ \- Jack made his way to the ancient reception desk. Apparently unmanned, Jack tapped the battered wood with impatient fingers. He eyed the cheery notice - ‘RING BELL FOR ASSISTANCE. HAVE A PLEASANT VISIT!’ - and was about to lightly tap said bell when a flustered looking woman emerged from the back office. She set down the stack of papers she was holding with a thwump, and began to leaf through them quickly with one hand, using the other to brush away the strands of hair that were stuck to her painted lips.

‘Hello, sir. How may I help?’

‘Loretta.’

Tucking a stray lock behind her ear, her eyes widened when she glanced up from her papers. Jack noticed with some satisfaction that her cheeks were tinged with pink.

'Mr Merridew.' She leaned forward, hair escaping her loose tie to fall across her face in a way that Jack found almost attractive. ‘Come back for more?’

Jack offered an indulgent smile. ‘Not this time, Loretta. I’ve come for a special someone.’

Her face fell slightly.

'And would that special someone be me?'

Jack ignored his inward groan. Façades must maintained if he wanted to keep this easy pass into the hospital. Even acting War Ministers had limits on their power. He put on a face he hoped was vaguely seductive.

'Not today. I have business,’ he said, ‘how do I look?’

Loretta's cheeks coloured. 'Dashing.' Her eyes flicked over his body. 'As always.'

And he did. Jack made sure to dress well, and today was no exception. He ran a hand through his hair, buttoned up his dark coat, and offered the receptionist a grin.

'I'll be back.'

The man turned, with a touch more theatricality than was necessary, and disappeared through a pair of swinging double doors.

Jack Merridew strode through yet more corridors, long passages of echoing concrete that became sparser with each turn. Occasionally he passed a visitor or a scurrying nurse, but even these became rare as he made his way through the  building. It was here that Jack began to hear noises; shuffling footsteps, short wails and some scuffling noise he couldn’t quite place became more frequent, getting louder with each stride.

The sharp footfalls came to a stop outside a grim looking door, a lattice of bars over the one tiny window.

Silence.

Jack steeled himself; this was good. This was expected. He was in charge. He inserted a key he had pilfered from the the desk while Loretta was distracted, and turned it. A single click, and Jack lightly pressed his fingers to the door, which swung open without a sound.

It took his eyes a few seconds to adjust - the overcast day filtered through a barred window in the back of the cell, against which a he made out a hunched figure.

He caught his breath. The figure raised his head, and Jack’s body instinctively froze - _get it together now, you’re chief_ \- and his hand tightened on the door handle behind him.

The silence in this part of the building was deafening. It pressed against his eardrums until he could hear nothing else. The very air felt dead.

‘It’s me, Jack.’

He took a ginger step into the room. The figure did not move. Jack considered crouching to his level, but thought better of it. He was Chief.

The man was emaciated. The plain hospital clothes hung loosely off his short frame, his dark hair lank and dishevelled. Years of solitude had left him haunted, a husk. The grey light washed over his face, his half lidded eyes focused on the middle distance. Jack edged forward.

‘Roger.’

A movement. The inky eyes flicked up.

‘I’m here to take you away.’

Silence.

Jack coughed, somewhat awkwardly. ‘You’re getting out. With me.'

The black eyes narrowed.

'I’m in Parliament now. I can do these things.’ He gestured vaguely about him. ‘I’ve climbed so high since Dad died. I’m in the Ministry of Defence, even. I take care of matters for the old Minister. I do everything now. I’ve got far.  And Roger. You need to see it. The defence placements out in the North Sea - they’re huge - not as big as the warships, though.’ A glint of an old, childlike excitement lit his eyes. 'There’s so much, Roger. So much. You need to see it all.  The Soviets have retreated back to the Baltics. We’re winning, Roger.’

Roger said nothing.

Jack flushed, then, at the sudden remembrance of his old friend’s Russian heritage, but swallowed the shame of yet another forgotten friend.

And then, in a voice unused for years, Roger spoke.

‘You forgot about me.’

Jack’s eyes widened slightly. ‘No! No. Of course I didn’t forget. All through the years. Every day. I remembered you.’

His cheeks burned, memory of years unplagued by thought of the dark boy evident in his face.

Roger curled his lip. ‘You forgot.’

Jack twisted a coat button between thin fingers. He averted his gaze.

‘I -’ he swallowed. ‘I’m sorry.’

Roger rose, with difficulty, and Jack flinched again. _Control yourself_.

'So?' To Jack, Roger looked demonic, his lank silhouette framed by the grey halo of outside. 'You said you could get me out.'

Jack's mouth was dry as he gestured towards the cell door. 'After you.'

Roger looked at him, his expression unreadable. 'Why should I trust you?'

'Why-'

'After all these years. Of nothing. Of me sitting here, day after day, week after month after year, nothing. Years of -' he rubbed his throat, his eyes hollow. 'Years of pain. Fear. Do you even know what they do to you in these places? To noncompliants?'

Jack stood in the doorway, his hand tight on the handle. 'I can't say I-'

'You don't.' Roger turned his dark gaze away, his figure seeming to have shrunk again. The deathly aura he had regained for a moment was gone again, along with his resolve. 'Do you even have the paperwork for this?' 

Jack frowned. This was not going to plan. 'No. I don't need it. Like I said -'

'I heard what you said.' Roger said. 'Fine. Fine. Just do it.'

He was breathing heavily, and his face flushed darkly as he put a firm hand on Jack's arm for support. Jack yet again fought the urge to flinch, Roger was weak - he, he was Chief, he was important, he was, he was - scared. Some thought about his position at the Ministy of Defence darted through his brain, but was fast drowned but the shivering instinct that filled his body. To run.

'I'll need to lean on you.'

'O-Of course. This way.'

He led the shorter man out of the door, and Jack almost stumbled against the weight of his former torturer. The few occupants of the nearby cells had woken, and the shuffling pair were bombarded with noise.

'Oi, ruskie! Got a bomb? Gonna blow us all up?'

Roger stared at the ground while the air echoed with laughter. Jack pressed on. Where was his man? He was meant to meet him at the west exit - it was in view, but he could see nothing. If they didn't get out the building soon, they'd be discovered by an unwitting doctor, which, Jack groaned internally, would mean a ton of paperwork.

'Oi, commie!'

Roger kept his eyes on a fixed point in front of them. Kept shuffling forward.

'Don't ignore me, Russian.' Someone had begun pounding the bars of their window. 'Gonna take me to the gulag? Eh?'

Jack's eyes were wild to match his hair, which had fallen out of its carefully groomed style. Ginger curls stood up at odd ends, and his complexion was slowly turning to crimson. This was bad. They were attracting attention. He could feel Roger's bones through his thin hospital shirt. Was he - trembling? Where was his man? _Oh God_. The cold corridor was exploding with sound. He needed to get out. _Why am I doing this?_ He was trapped, caged like an animal, and his fingers were starting to shake on Roger's back.  _Don't let him feel._ _Oh God. Oh God oh God oh -_

'Mr Merridew!'

'Harrison!'

A looming figure stood in the open doorway. Jack could feel the cold from outside begin to calm his fraying nerves. _Finally_.

'Harrison - where were you?' Jack tried to regain control of his breathing, Roger's grip on him even looser.

'Minor delays, sir, nothing to worry about - the car is round the back.'

'I should hope so. Get him in.' Jack stepped out into the frozen air, undraped Roger's arm from his shoulders, and pushed the figure towards the chauffeur. They stood in the cold light, thankfully hidden from the road behind a row of skips. Jack stood there for a moment, letting his heart settle while Harrison led the stumbling figure to the car. His breath formed vague shapes in front of him, and he pulled his coat tighter. The cold still eked into his bones, through his body, and seemed to settle there.

Today was the start of something. He wasn't even sure he wanted it to happen. Did he really need his old choirmate for this? Was this right? His glanced over his thin figure, now easing in the back seat with little protest. Jack strode toward the car, numb hands in pockets.

'Harrison. You know where to take us.'

 

 


	5. MORE Old Friends

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (you'll find out more about robert and why he's doing what he's doing next time we see him!)

 

Roger sat stiffly in his chair, the worn suit he was provided with giving little comfort. The starched collar dug into his neck, the sleeves frayed at the edges. 

 _Can't have you looking drab,_ they'd said. He pulled at a loose button. And so they had fitted him, upon waking, with a suit that looked like it had seen Queen Victoria's funeral.

He eyed the man across from him. The weak morning light came into the room in shafts, highlighting the man opposite with fitting theatricality. His old Chief, evidently, had lost none of his presence.

Jack’s lithe body draped across the chair, tapping a rhythm on the leather surface of his desk with a pen. ‘Stop giving me those eyes. You look pathetic. Find something else to stare at.’

The truth was, while Roger, in his emaciated state, did look pathetic, his stare made Jack uncomfortable. His eyes retained the dark intensity of a murderer - which - he did not need to remind himself, he was. They all were.

‘What did you want me to do?’

Jack grinned. Falsely. Roger could tell by the intermittent taps on the desk, his tense frame that he tried to hide with an easy recline, the slight sweat under the hairline.

‘It’s easy. Down at Bethnal Green. It’s mostly uninhabited now, but there’s still a dump - a large one. You won’t miss it.’ The tapping stopped. ‘If my sources are correct, there should be an old friend there to meet us.’

 

⚓

 

Robert picked his way across the rubble, his worn boot sending stones skittering down the heap. He wrapped his arm around an old chair leg, and heaved himself higher - only a few feet to go before the summit. He’d be done before dinnertime.

Or so he told himself.

A stray lump of plastic bounced its way down to him, trailing wires behind it that whipped against his peeling raincoat as it passed. Robert glanced down after it, and made a mental note. Old telephone parts were valuable - he could get a half a crown for the wiring alone. But that was for later. There were more to be found up high. He willed himself to press on, first pulling his upper torso onto the makeshift ledge, then hauling his legs behind him. From up here, he could see his surroundings. A sea of debris, old household items and rubble - a roughly square shaped dump, hemmed in on all sides by soot stained terraces. London had few services anymore, and this was, by all means, the local dump for the district. A small cloud of seagulls circled above one patch; the smell coming from there was enough to tell Robert to stay away - nevertheless, his stomach rumbled, and he turned away in shame. He hadn’t eaten for two days.

He turned back to the debris he was sitting in, and scuffled around the edge of the artificial precipice. He could see a box below, half hidden by a sack whose contents Robert tried not to imagine. Carefully, he picked his way down to it, ignoring the wires that dug into his calloused palms, or dubious footholds that his boots barely gripped. Upon reaching the base of his mound, he let himself drop the last few feet onto a ragged cushion, and crouched to the box, which he now realised was a battered leather suitcase. He wrapped his hands round the handle and yanked the thing from under the sack, falling back on the half-stuffed cushion, coughing and batting at the clouds formed from the impact. His fingers scrabbled at the edges until he realised the box had a clasp, which, due to its old state, fell apart at his touch.

Gingerly, he prised the thing open. Inside, there were bundles of yellowing papers, photographs, and what looked like newspaper cuttings. Robert blew out through his nose. Nothing of value, and little he could use, other than bedding, or fire material. His fingers were fumbling to snap it shut when something caught his eye.

A newspaper cutting, yellowed and curling, sat on top of the pile, its corners lifted by the slight breeze. Robert picked it up, carefully, stared at it. A row of boys in stark black dress glared out of the stippled picture, except for one -  the smallest - whose face bore a tiny smile. Robert glanced at the caption.

_Boys from Harlington International School, Oxford, attend the 36 annual National Choir Contest in the Albert Hall._

His heart stopped.

He felt the paper between his fingers; it was real, like the rest the contents of the case - now, he realised, all medical records. He leafed through them, not comprehending the faded scrawl, and shoved them back in the box, only to bring out the clipping again.

‘Watch what you’re doing with that.’

Robert tensed, the moment broken. He crouched, glanced left and right. Nothing. A small object whizzed past his shoulder, and he whipped his head up to the source.  A thin figure, clad in a suit that had seen better days, leaned against a hunk of rusted metal, one hand in his pocket, the other tossing and catching another pebble.

'Hello, Robert,' grinned the man.

Somewhere, deep in Robert's brain, a drum began to beat. He knew this man. He recognised that bored intonation - yet, yet, if it was true - if this was the boy, that sad, broken - _insane_ \- boy, confined to an institution from a family who didn't want him, then Robert realised his chances of surviving were dropping fast. He tensed his legs, preparing to run for it, if necessary. Yet this was impossible - it couldn't be him. The boy in question was sectioned. Gone. Out of society. Yet -

'You wouldn't forget _Roger_ , would you?

Robert's blood turned to ice.

He started scrabbling backwards through the rubbish, grazing his hands and knees on old tins. Roger grinned. He dropped down from his high ledge with the grace of a puma stalking its prey.

Robert tried standing up, but his feet kept sinking between old cushions and bags of dubious content. 'Roger - please - I never forgot about you - I just -'

'What's that?'

Robert was dumbfounded. 'W-what?'

Roger was frozen mid stride. 'In your hand. The cutting.'

Robert had, in his fear, forgotten the small scrap of paper scrunched in his palm. 'This?' He held his hand out.

'Give it to me.'

Without questioning, Robert gave him the cutting. Roger snatched it, and pored over the disintegrating photograph with the air of a starving man given food. His dark eyes took in every detail, every face, but came to a rest at the image of the smiling boy. Robert couldn't give him a name. He must have died, he thought, on the island. Roger's eyes grew wide, his face softer. Robert was breathing heavily, his heart still racing -  why had he stopped? What, on that tiny slip of paper, could have saved his life?

'I wasn't going to kill you,'  Roger said. He pronounced the words slowly. He had time.

'What?'

Roger had pocketed the slip, and was now eying Robert disdainfully.

'Is that all you say? I said, I wasn't going to kill you.' He snorted. 'What good would you be then?' He took the stone out of his pocket, and began to play with it again, while staring at the boy on the ground. 'Are you going to come with me?'

The pounding in Robert's brain intensified. He tried to open his dry mouth, but no words came out. His hands shifted, causing rubble to dislodge, and he could hear the sequence of knocks, growing quieter with each second. A dog barking. Worn tyres on ashphalt, the _vroom_ of the accelerator - _wait_. Roger must have an accomplice - and a car.

'Well?'

Robert's skin crawled as he realised that he had little choice.

 

⚓

 

The blue light of the bathroom fell weakly across Ralph’s face as he leant against the sink, bare shoulders heaving. His reflection in the cracked mirror was haunted. Dark circles under heavy eyes, skin sallow, forehead glistening with a cold sweat. He exhaled, let go of the cold ceramic, and passed a towel over his face before pulling on a shirt and trousers. He felt sick, but forced himself upright, and stumbled down the tiny creaking staircase to find his coat and cap still hung on the wall. A thought of the small, huddled shape under the covers he had left alone darted through his mind. He felt the guilt rising, like bile, and turned his face away. He needed this. He needed to go.

He put on his cap, shrugged on his heavy coat, and stepped out into the swirling snow.

 

 


	6. totally hot jalph wedding xoxoxooxoxoxooxox

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> music - https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=izGwDsrQ1eQ

ralph was leaning seducitvely against a wall lookin hot in his naval uniform with his head thrown back as he cried for his long lost love  
'jack, jack, my one sweet romance. appear at once so we may commence our nuptials'

Suddenly, a cloud of gliter appeared in front of him that his one tru love, jack, stepped out of like megamind in that one scene. he removed his hairnet with a slo mo sweep of his red mane. ralphs heart beat fast. his love. back after all these years. tears streamed down hsi face.

'ily ralf' cried jack as he swept the golden headed bimbo into his inexplicably muscular arms. ralf leant into his equally inexplicable abs. 'ily2, jek' ralf wept sensuously. ten years of waiting. he was ehre

jack looked into the distance nobly. 'my love. we must prepare for our marriage'  
piggy skipped down the aisle and flung flowers into the screaming crowd, which composed of the hunters, a lizard, several pigs and william golding, who looked lost

simon appeared too and read out the wedding vows. 'ralp, do u take this asshole ginger as ur husband'  
ralph wept sweet tears. 'i do.'

they made out passionately. golding cried

also waluigi was there

they banged

the end

 

happy april fools you nerds


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> all i can say is im so so sorry
> 
> also i'm adding music for chapters! im probably gonna make a playlist at the end ey  
> music: baltimore's fireflies - woodkid

Jack strode into the office, footsteps sharp on the floor, hands fumbling with his jacket buttons. ‘Good work for yesterday, Roger. Crying, by the time I saw him.’ He threw himself onto his chair. ‘Would I want to know what you did to him?’

Roger looked up from his place by the futon. He snorted, but there was little life in his expression. ‘You don’t.’

His eyes had softened, which disturbed Jack. What had he seen?

‘Anyway,’ Jack said, struggling with his coat while attempting to look Roger in the face, ‘I’ll be gone for a few hours. I trust you’ll be staying here?’ He heaved his lanky frame up, and took his hat from an aide, who immediately scurried off to prepare the car.

Roger’s face darkened. ‘It’s not like you let me out.’

‘Yeah, well, I -’

‘I did what you wanted me to. Let me go.’

Jack paused, hand on the door. He looked back at his former torturer. His face was draped in the deep shadow behind the curtain. Fitting, Jack thought, for the deathly boy - no, man - he remembered from days past. With effort, he fixed his blue gaze on the man, and drew himself to his full height.

‘I can’t.’

His features darkened. ‘What do you mean, you can’t?’

‘I - or rather, I’m not.’

‘Not?’

‘Letting you go, I mean. I -’ he picked his words carefully, ‘My - plan - requires, ah, you. To be here.’

Roger raised an eyebrow. He said nothing, but reached into his pocket to bring out a smooth pebble, which he turned over with a finger and thumb.

The fine hairs at the back of Jack’s neck began to rise.

He shook it off - _I’m Chief_ \- but still, the feeling resided within him, and stayed as he made his way down the vaulted hall, and through the door, out onto the grey street.

If his sources were to be trusted, today, he should be meeting someone. His heart began to beat faster. He lowered himself into the back seat of the car, tapping once on the glass partition. _Today is the day it comes together._

 

⚓

  
  
Snow billowed about the ashen square, dusting the shoulders of the lined servicemen, low murmurs leaking into the tearing wind. Ralph was a hunched  figure at the end, his cap pulled low over his face, face set. The officers next to him were engaged in deep conversation that he did not wish to join. _Get this over, and he could go home. Apologise to Evie_. His heart sunk as an image of her disappointed face came to mind. He tensed at the thought of confronting her, but for now, he put these thoughts aside. From here, the steps of the empty shell of the National Gallery - before it shut indefinitely due to lack of funds - he could see the square in its entirety. White dusted stone, the fountains frozen solid - an altogether soulless scene, made worse by the rows of servicemen flanked by what tanks the army had left. Once, another place, another time - this place had been beautiful, but the war had made no exceptions for Trafalgar Square. The ground was a speckled with small craters, while one of the fountains had been destroyed completely, along with one of the lions at the base of Nelson's Column, leaving a blackened pit. The column itself still, miraculously, stood, a lone monolith, a remnant of a war from another age.

The winds had stilled; flakes, white and feather like, landed softly on Ralph's cap. The low murmurs grew, and he jumped as he felt a hand clamp firmly on his shoulder.

'St Clair!'

Ralph spun around, and was quickly enveloped in a rigid embrace. The man held him out at arms length, and nodded approvingly. Bewildered, Ralph tried to put a name to the aged face. The man, now he could see him, sported a greying moustache and deep set eyes, which crinkled. Commander Bryant, his father's old school friend. Many a stilted dinner had been spent with the Bryants, to the point where Ralph ended up making excuses to avoid them.

'Lieutenant already! I'm sure your father's proud.'

Ralph tried to arrange his face into what he hoped was an expression of recognition.

'He was,' The lie slid easily from his tongue. 'He always spoke well of you.'

The old commander seemed gratified. 'Well,' he said, 'I don't know about that.' Then his eyebrows tilted in shock. 'He was, you say?' There was something else in his face, too. Pity.

Ralph felt his expression harden. His father had had many acquaintances. Nobody he wanted to entangle with. Especially those who pitied him.

He stuffed his hands in his pockets. 'Yeah. He died. Soviet warship got too close for comfort on the North Sea front, sent in a fleet to sort it out, and the reds came back with a squadron. Bombers.' He looked at his feet. 'Death toll of over three thousand.'

This was true. He had recieved the terse telegram. He had watched the casket being lowered into the ground. Not that there was anything to bury.

'He was a good man, your father. Never let me down.'

'Yeah.' His jaw was set. Ralph's father had all the time for the navy. Nothing left for his son.

Bryant looked as if he had something else to say, but as he opened his mouth, a single clear note sounded across the square. The rumble of voices ceased, and the milling crowd formed into lines. The old commander made a noise of annoyance, and tipped his cap at Ralph. 'Well. My condolences. I -' His voice was swept away as the bugle again sounded, and he slipped into a neighbouring line.

Ralph felt the breeze begin again as a lone flake landed on his nose. He itched to brush it off. Somewhere across the square, a brass band started playing, half drowned out by the steadily increasing wind. The official party, consisting of the Prime Minister, the Minster for Defence, represented today by his understudy - who Ralph had yet to hear of - would be inspecting his line - he decided, however, it would be several minutes before they reached his section, and so he took the opportunity to wipe his face with his sleeve, pull his cap low over his ears, and stuff his frozen fingers in his pockets for a few minutes' respite.

The square was as silent as a mausoleum, except for the rush of the wind snaking round the columns, surging through empty windows of abandoned buildings. The official party had stopped a few officers down from him. What was the delay? Again, Evie flitted through his mind. He would be back soon. The party had started moving again - achingly slowly. Disquieted mumbling. He felt restless, anxious. _He would get back. He would_.

He was so wrapped up in his thoughts that he didn't notice when the official party arrived at his section. Or when a clear voice rang out.

'It seems, gentlemen, that someone has little tolerance for the cold.'

The band stopped.

'Are you fit for the Navy, Lieutenant?'

Ralph started, realising that he was being adressed, and that he still had his hands stuffed in his pockets. His heart hammered horribly as he yanked his hands out their pockets and clasped them behind his back.

He could feel the penetrating stares of the others on him. Not that he could see them - he had left his cap, he realised, still pushed down low. _Stupid_. _Stupid stupid st-_

'Yes.' he stuttered, 'Sir. Apologies, sir.' He shifted it back up, and his blood froze.

Nice to see your face, Lieutenant,' said the acting Minister for Defence. Ralph looked. And looked again.

 _N_ _o_.

It wasn't.  _Please_. They had moved on, yet Ralph could not shake the image of the thin frame, the fire hair, the electric eyes, that, had in that second, met his own.

 _Please let it not be him_.

 _Minister for Defence? Really?_ Yet it fit; with what he knew of him - _him_ , that had haunted his dreams for years, invaded his mind, flitted on the corners of his vision when he felt he was alone. He swallowed. _It wasn't_. Yet. He stared after the back of the man, yet his loping stance gave no indication that he had just seen the boy he had tried to murder ten years ago. Ralph felt sick.

The wind gently dusted the snow from his shoulders. _I'm coming home, Evie_. _As fast as I can_.


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> in which we learn maurice needs some better pickup lines

Crates clattered and chickens squawked as the tall boy loped his way through the oncoming crowd of traders, labourers, small children and general layabouts. They could find little else to do on a Wednesday morning than to hover around the Covent Garden market, waiting for the leftovers that would be sure to appear. Maurice, however, had little time for such optimistic laziness, and pushed his way past several of the idlers as he made his way toward his stall, where his stallholder was waiting.

His bag slammed onto the rough hewn table. ‘What do we have today?’

His stallholder, Jimmy, one of many orphaned young boys from the East End said, ‘Ten rounds of cheddar. We got a few sacks of coal come over from the shipment from Wales and at least five-’ he checked the covered cages under the table, ‘at least five chickens. One cockerel, which is a fat loada good unless someone wants a roast.’ he snorted. ‘We could keep it, though. There’s enough there for at least five dinners.’

    Maurice, whose own hunger woke at the mention of a roast, huffed with mock reluctance. ‘Fine,’ he said, avoiding the boy’s starved stare, ‘fine. I want a third though.’

 

Food was scarce in London. And it was not empty. Thousands had remained, to stubborn or unable to obey the government’s orders to evacuate and had since formed small communities, where gangs ruled the streets, where a couple of notes to the right man could ensure protection, while eye contact with the wrong man could land you in hospital. Or it would have, if the city still had any. For those who had were not evacuated, those who lacked the money to flee elsewhere, bartering in a backstreet market over a bone had become a daily task. Maurice, like many other boarding school children with family overseas, was left to be picked up by relatives, yet none had ever come - international borders were closed to civilians, and the government had implemented the evacuation scheme too late. To Maurice, this felt bitterly ironic - he had been in the previous wave of evacuation - yet his bid for escape had failed with the introduction of his plane to a fighter jet. And after that - he didn’t like to remember.

Maurice had adapted well to living rough, his natural gift of speech winning over the most hardened buyer, and his lack of fear meant he was something of a legend among the kids of the borough. Too often, however, it was his blasé attitude that landed him in trouble.

 

The biting morning air was full of sound as the public started to arrive; small children shouted after their mothers; gaunt mongrels scampered between feet, hoping to catch a scrap. Maurice rolled up an ancient issue of the Times as a makeshift microphone.

‘HALF CROWN!’ he gestured to the crowd, ‘HALF CROWN FOR  A CHICKEN!’ Heads turned, and the first few buyers weaved their way through the milling crowds.

 

Sales went well. He’d sent Jimmy on an errand to buy more stock en masse, so Maurice was manning the stall alone. Things were getting flustered, and he’d managed to drop a coin he had attempted to make ‘disappear’ for a group of unimpressed girls, who were looking vaguely threatening now Maurice was scrabbling among the cobbles for where he’d lost it, and to cap it all, a bespectacled old woman seemed to think he was her nephew.

‘Philip! I told you to meet me at the fishmonger’s! And now you abandon me and I find you yelling through a newspaper. The shame!'

‘Madam, I said, I’m not - ow!’ Maurice clutched at his arm. The woman’s umbrella was poised for another swipe. ‘Madam, please -’

‘I’ll give you sixpence for the cock.’

Maurice started. The speaker was a dark haired girl of about his age, sporting a spattering of freckles across her nose and clothes that hung off her thin body.

Maurice leaned with casual abandon on the nearest cheese crate, which collapsed.

Cheeses rolled everywhere, and  he scuffled to reach them while maintaining a look of careless seduction, which proved hard from his tangled position on the ground. ‘Well,’ he said, ‘‘I’d like to be selling my wares for a little more than -’

The girl had not moved. ‘For the _cock_.’ She pointed toward the cages.

The last cheese rolled out of Maurice’s grip. ‘Oh.’

Truth to be told, Maurice had little backup plan for failed pickup lines. Purely from the fact that they never _had_ failed.

He straightened up, and dumped the last cheese on the table. ‘Uh. are you sure?’

The cockerel in the cage had taken on a warlike position, feathers raised. Its beady eyes stared at Maurice, and Maurice stared back. ‘He’s … pretty aggressive.’

The girl stared at Maurice too, which felt unjust.

‘I can handle it.’

Maurice leaned against the remaining crate, wearing his best alluring gaze. ‘Are you sure?’

The girl looked like he had thrown up. ‘Are you constipated? Look, I don’t want to be here.’ She leant in further, her voice dropped lower. ‘I’m here with a message. Give me your hand. I need to give you a number.’

‘Nice,’ said Maurice, ‘do you want mine?’

The girl snarled and in a fast movement, slammed him against a wall, causing several old ladies to cluck with disapproving glares. ‘Now, look here, you moron -’

Maurice wriggled his hand out of the girl’s iron grip to rub his aching head. ‘I mean, I appreciate this and all, but what happened to holding hands?’ He shrugged, or as best he could under her grip, which meant an unfortunate resemblance to a squatting dog. ‘We could get a date.’

‘Unbelievable.’ the girl grunted. ‘Just like he said.’

Somewhere in Maurice’s brain, a light flicked on. ‘He?’

The girl rolled her eyes. ‘Yes. Finally. The coin dropped.’ She released his arms, which Maurice rubbed bashfully. ‘Your - how did he put it? Your Chief. With a capital C,’ she added.

His eyes widened. ‘He sent _you_?’ Jimmy had still not returned and the old woman had resumed prodding him with her umbrella, but he ignored it. ‘Why - how does he -’

‘Mr Merridew knows a great many people. Most owe him a favour.’  Her face darkened; she looked away. ‘I did.’

He had not heard from Jack for years. He had stayed in the area out of some faint sense of loyalty; before his rise in the government his Chief had attempted a continuance of his old tyrannical rule in the streets. Before it had dissolved into petty gang violence, Maurice had been his most trusted man. Not his bodyguard; that kind of grunt work had been left to unshakeable Bill, but the place of the right hand man, his confidante - had been Maurice’s. But what had caused him to contact him now?

His eyebrows scrunched as he looked at the girl. ‘I didn’t get your name.’

Hesitation flickered across her features. ‘Stella.’

‘Thanks, Stella.’ His eyes had lost their focus; his mind was swirling. ‘I’ll see you some other time.’

Stella was clearly bemused by this sudden change of character, but turned to make her way into the crowd. ‘No, you won’t.’

His face shot up. ‘But what about the date?’

Confusion wrinkled her brow, and then she snorted. ‘Unbelievable,’ she said again, and disappeared in the milling bodies.

 


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I UPDATED FINALLY RIP IM SO SLOW AT WRITING
> 
> (A/N: when roger says 'pissed', it's more leaning to the british slang, meaning drunk, rather than the american slang 'angry' definition. kinda gives a clue to the nature of this chapter hA h)

ALSO!!! about the brother thing: this was something I was debating a lot about including here, seeing as he's an oc. however, he won't feature, as he's already dead, but i couldn't avoid mentioning him as obviously this death would affect how ralph is now. you can read the fic where he died [here](http://sharpened-popsicle-stick.tumblr.com/post/109229775693/prologue-to-sad-post-island-ralf-fic-which)!

 [music](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=RC2GnSjq5oc)

 

 

 

A hand slammed onto the bar in front of Ralph, causing several pint glasses to rattle. He looked up blearily, and rubbed a hand over his face. Plans to go home had failed dismally when he had discovered Evie to be out, and so found his comfort in the Boatswain's Arms, and its enticing scent of alcohol and chatter.

‘What?’

It was his sub lieutenant. He struggled to remember the name through his alcohol induced stupor - Trethowan, he thought, although he had been through many in the past years, as people came and went, or were killed.

Trethowan pulled back a stool to sit on. ‘I said, how long’ve you been here?’

‘I dunno. Uh -’ he checked his watch. Both hands pointed straight up. ‘A couple of hours?’

Trethowan frowned. 'Come and sit with us. Dougie and Peters are at the back.'

Ralph downed the last dregs of his glass. 'Fine. For a few minutes.'

The pub was noisy, and the dark haze of cigarette smoke matched the murk of Ralph’s mind. Ever since he’d seen - he could hardly bear to think his name, let alone say it - at the parade, his head had been a mess. What could he do, now he knew who held the ultimate control? There was nowhere to run, nowhere to hide - and so he found himself at this dingy establishment, concealing his fear in alcohol, hiding himself in the shrouded corners. With ice in his veins, he realised that the hunt had never really ended. It had just begun.

 

⚓

 

'You can pick ‘em up easy,' said Peters, 'with _your_ face.'

Ralph wasn’t sure his brain still possessed the ability to reply.

You forget, Ed,’ Dougie said, ‘he’s still got his girl back home.’

Ralph fumbled for words. ‘I -’

‘Aw, come on, you’re French. You speak the language of love.’

‘That was Dad.’

Peters nodded towards the girls. ‘Still. Whisper sweet nothings. _J’aime tes chevaux_. They love that kind of shit.’

Ralph snorted noisily into his drink. ‘When did you last take a French lesson?’

The were seated round a small vanished in an alcove, opposite a gaggle of girls, a few of whom would fleetingly glance over, and the whole table would dissolve into loud giggles.

A few minutes had stretched, like treacle, into a few hours, and his head had been numbed by the alcohol. The face that had haunted his dreams for years had all but vanished from his mind. He glanced at the opposite table, and met eyes with a vision in rouge, who winked. The blood rushed to his face; he drew his eyes away quickly. The pub was filled with sailors; heady with their first night back on land, and some of higher rank bent over tankards near the back. Ralph’s own table was populated with petty officers, the sub lieutenant Trethowan, and himself. Those, he realised, he was not close enough to scare off, or those too loyal to leave.

Peters was still speaking. ‘They’re all over us. Girls’ll do anything for a man who serves Queen and country.’

Ralph was not listening. He was slumped against the wall, listless eyes following the progress of a slight, dark haired man who wove through the crowds of stumbling seamen towards the battered exit sign. Something about his stride, his posture caught Ralph off guard, yet, he could not place him, and so he ignored the prickling sensation at the base of his neck.

‘Look,’ he said, ‘I’m going to head back.’ He rose, with some difficulty, to the dismayed sounds of his table. He shrugged on his coat, which did little to ease the caustic niggling in his mind.  

‘It’s late.’ Which was an understatement, but Ralph turned and fumbled his way through the mass of bodies, towards the cool air of the exit.

He felt, through his alcohol induced stupor, that he was ignoring something, and as a seed took root, the feeling grew unpleasantly in his mind. Much of the snow from last night had frozen, and so Ralph had to pick his way between frozen puddles. The walk back to Greenwich from the docklands would take a well over half hour, and he shoved his chapped hands in his pockets and strode through the dark.

 

Still, however, the prickling feeling did not abate. Shadows, thrown by the lights of the few inhabited buildings, were thrown across the street, stretching up walls. In the dark, dingy corners, darkness stirred, and took shape. Ralph’s footfalls were soft, rhythmic, and his heart began to pulse in time. He walked past crates, looming ships, picked his way past low hanging ropes that hung like creepers from the cathedral like skeletons of unfinished vessels. Flowers of ice curled under his feet, and he had to stretch out a chapped hand for a handhold. The seed of doubt had bloomed into a tingling across his body, and he found his eyes roving the landscape, looking for a misplaced shadow, a flicker of movement. Ralph shook his head; this was paranoia. He rubbed his hands over trembling arms and picked up his pace through the tangle of nets and towering crates. The shadows followed.

 

He pulled his collar up and turned away, yet the shadows did not abate. They pooled in the darkness, had grown legs, arms, sticks - a darker shape stood out from the rest, incorporeal hands stretching, catching on his coat, his sleeves.

Adrenaline, like quicksilver, shot through his system, skin tingling as a million nerve endings awoke. Ralph was electric. He threw himself from the darkness, feet striking out on the concrete. The fog that crept from the estuary was in his head too and he grasped at his hair, his skin, something tangible that would stop the pounding in his brain yet nothing, not his drunken stupor, nor the pain of his fingernails digging at his skin could numb his throbbing senses. He floundered across the icy track until his boot lost grip, and his body flew forward, fingers grasping at air until his arm hooked around a rope. He hung limply, gasping for breath. The silence was apparent. Achingly, he heaved his body up, and leant his forehead against the damp moss. Something, cool and frail, brushed against his skin, and Ralph opened one eye in unease. It was a bud. Around it, growing off the rope that was not, he now realised, a rope, but a creeper, were others - some already bloomed, faint white stars speckling the green. With a jolt, he released the thing, and stumbled away, hands brushing over the top of the undergrowth that had sprung from cracks in the pavement, boots sinking into the porous earth. The faint cry of some exotic bird echoed between the empty warehouses, and a shiver snaked down his spine.  The drum beat was in his head, incessant, and somewhere - faintly - the acrid smell of burning reached his nose, and through the chaos in his mind he felt a faint recognition.

He cried out, through the crackle of orange tongues of fire that now crept at his boots as he leapt through the blazing underbrush, and passed a sleeve over his face, the wetness he found there streaking his cheeks. He ran from the shadows, from the faceless figures in the dark, from himself, his breath coming short. His lungs burned. In the corner of his eye, he could see forms in the dark, spectral grins through the flames, and he ran faster, the alcohol making his legs sluggish, sobs choking his throat.

 

Ralph did not know how long he ran for. His heart throbbed and his feet ached, but still he put on foot in front of the other, and at some point - he could not remember when - the undergrowth had receded, and his boots had began to pound on paved ground. The shadows were still there, though, now retreated to the alleyways and musty corners. The deserted streets were silent, but for his footfalls on the snow dusted concrete, and the erratic thump of his heart. Ralph kept moving, his pace slowed to a pained limp. He had to keep going onward.

                                               

⚓

 

'Right,' said Jack, flopping on his chair with a _thump_ , 'I'm sure you're all burning to ask me something. And that - time for questions later, Maurice,' -  Maurice lowered his hand, defeated - 'is why I have gathered you here today.' He straightened his notes on the desk that his feet rested on and grinned up at the young men seated before him.

'And that,' he said, using a pointer to jab at the chalkboard behind him, 'is a simple case of unfinished business.'

Roger, in the corner, rolled his eyes at the theatrics and began to fiddle with the ever present pebble that lived in his pocket. The rest of the assembled group dutifully followed Jack's pointer to what resembled a deformed spider diagram,  with photographs and odd bits of newspaper clippings tacked on in intervals.

'I've been doing research. A lot of research. For a long time, in fact.'  He frowned. 'I've been through the local papers and military records, kept tabs on the shipyards. I've been looking. For him.'

Maurice raised his hand again. 'Uh. Who?'

Jack's already pale complexion took on a new shade of pallour. 'Who? _Who_?' He struck the board with force, the stick ripping a hole in the paper face of a young man in naval uniform. _VICTORY AT GIBRALTAR_ , proclaimed the headline, _YOUNG LIEUTENANT RESPONSIBLE FOR WINNING MOVE_. Pale hair emerged from under his peaked cap, framing a sharp boned face, eyes hollow, faintly nervous expression unperturbed by the rip through his nose.

Maurice’s hand wilted. ‘Oh.’

He could see the resemblance to the boy on the island, the fair boy with the broken shell -  a face he had tried to forget, many a time. Of course Jack wanted to find him. When they had first got back, he - _Ralph_ \- was all Jack could talk about. How he was going to ‘do him in’, how he had ‘always hated him.’ _From the beginning,_ he had said, _I knew there was something wrong with him. He’s different. He’s not one of us._

‘Followed in Daddy’s footsteps, apparently,’ Jack snorted. ‘While some of us have been holed up in government, Ralph here has been blowing up reds.’ He grinned. ‘Until, that is, an explosion on the HMS Fortuna killed -’ he flicked back to his papers, ‘- about ten, including his brother.’

‘Yes,’ he said to the confused faces, ‘It seems. That Ralph had a brother. Not well known. But would you not think? After causing the deaths of so many, our boy must be racked with guilt. He must be feeling desperate. Longing to regain some pride. And Roger has kindly done some scoping for us.’

Roger looked up from his pebble.

‘In the Boatswain’s Arms. Pissed.’

‘Thanks, Roger. Hanging with the low dregs of society. Of whom,’ Jack threw a shrewd grin at Robert, who seemed to be in the process of making himself as small as possible, ‘you seem to be part of. What’s this with the rubbish picking?’

‘ _Scavenging._ ’

‘Scavenging, rubbish picking, a mud lark. Whatever. But why? I thought your family were set up here.’

Robert looked like he wanted to cry. ‘Father … he … he was found out.. All our funds, gone.’

Mutual understanding passed through the small group. Robert’s father belonged to an Estonian smuggling ring, a well known fact amongst the boys, despite how their teachers kept it behind closed doors. A single prison sentence would have ruined them.

‘Well, Robert,’ said Jack, ‘chin up. We’ll all be heroes soon.’

‘How?’ said Maurice, too intrigued to raise his hand. ‘What are we-’

Jack looked like a wraith in the half light. ‘I made a mistake. Ralph is still alive. And I need to correct that.’


	10. Chapter 10

MUSIC [late night by foals](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=kc0-tJmvDDA)

          [winter by daughter](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=A6oOeFi2ilo)

 

Her trembling fingers were light on the wireless dial, the stations flickering between muffled voices and static. Evie had been here for the last few hours, ever since she opened the door to an empty house.

She leaned back in the creaking chair, and ran her hands over her face. _Where had he gone?_ She wanted to throw something, to scream - yet the dark of the house hemmed her in, stole the air from her lungs. She got up - the sound of the chair scraping made her wince in the silence - and filled the kettle with water. She would wait this out.

The tea had barely touched Evie’s lips when her heart jolted - was it a knock she had heard? No, she thought, it was a fault of the ancient piping, yet - there it was again. Unmistakably a knock. Her heart raced, bile rose in her throat. She prayed, futilely, that he was sober.

The cold hit her in the face, and she blinked at the empty night, then at the shaking figure at her feet.

Ralph had no idea how he had found home. He had stumbled, for hours, until he found himself collapsed on the doorstep. He was a deer caught in headlights, and his body did not seem to want to respond. The warm light of the house flooded over his trembling shoulders and he reached for it, for Evie, and found his fist filled with floral pattern cloth. Her skirts. He felt her warm breath at his ear, and he fought to control the sobs that threatened to tear his body apart.

'Ralph.'

He felt a warm hand on his arm as he held on to the door frame, and eased himself to his feet. Evie put her hand around his shoulder, and they stumbled down the narrow hallway, depositing him on the ancient sofa, while Evie went to make a second cup of tea.

 

Ralph said nothing as Evie pressed the hot mug into his hands.

She leaned toward him, pale in the blue half light. Her voice was hollow. 'This needs to stop.'

Ralph rubbed a hand over his face.

'I know.'

'When we moved in together, you and I, we made a promise. To talk.'

Ralph looked away.

'And I can talk. I can talk for ages. But you.' she paused, and her voice became ragged. 'You. You never say anything. You speak. But you don't _talk_.'

The lump in Ralph's throat had begun to hurt.

'I haven't.' he said. His mind was full of creepers. 'Not for a long time.'

Evie stared at him. Ralph swallowed. 'Not since the island.'

 

⚓

 

Roger leafed through drawers, hands flicking swiftly through old shipyard reports, letter headers, telegrams. Nothing of interest.  

Jack was sleeping, and the cold hallways of the Ministry were his to explore. He yanked open another cabinet, tore out the faded contents, and laid them out on the desk. His heart froze.

Before him was a familiar incomprehensible scrawl. Jack had found the rest of the contents of the box, under his direction. Now Roger would take it back. His eyes ran hungrily over the text, stopping occasionally to frown at a number or scratched out word.  Finally, he smiled. He had found his prize. He tore the a slip from the form, and stuffed it in his pocket to accompany the paper boy, whose face bore an eternal smile.

 

⚓

 

‘So,’ Evie said, running her hands through her hair, ‘You’re telling me that you were - you were - _hunted down_ on that - _island_ \- and that the Minister for Defence is the very twelve year old that tried to _kill_ you?’

Ralph snorted. ‘Not the Minister. He’s just an aide. An aide that got far more power than he deserved.’

After the parade, Ralph’s mind had been swimming with his pale face - a face that, until now, had been shrouded and dusty in the darkest confines of his memory. He had heard rumours of the ancient, waning Minister, strings pulled by a young hotshot with flaming hair to match - yet dismissed them as myth. Surely, he had thought, out of millions, his old foe would be the least likely to appear.

He leant back on the sofa, and rubbed his aching eyes until he could see lights swimming beneath his eyelids. Evie, silhouetted against the emerging grey dawn, turned towards the window. Her shoulders heaved.

‘I’m sorry.’

Ralph blinked. ‘For what?’

She looked lost for a moment, and Ralph wanted to stand up and gently wrap his arms around her waist, run his fingers through the wisps of her hair, touch his lips to hers.

But he didn’t. He was just as lost as she was.

Tiny voices pricked at him. _Coward_. _Deserter_. _Weak_.

Ralph couldn’t explain why he had never spoken about the island. Everyone knew, sure, but this was something he had let his teachers, the newspapers, the rumours do for him. He himself had maintained a silence that school counsellors, over the years, had attempted to penetrate.

 _Weak_. _Weak_. _Weak_.

Evie gingerly turned back to him, eyes avoidant. ‘All these years. I never asked. Not once.’ She seemed hesitant, and still her eyes flicked - to the table, the old television, her own feet, anywhere but Ralph, whose face had once seemed like art to her, now a symbol of the unknown, another casualty of a war she didn’t even understand.

‘I defended you. Against the rumours. Accusations. That time last summer. When we walked into the dance hall. Every face -’ she coughed down the lump in her throat - ‘Every face, staring at us. At you. I put up with your family. When we first started dating, all my old school friends were ringing my ear off on the phone. _“Are you sure you’re alright? In the head, I mean?” “What’s it like being a Lost Boy’s girl, Evie?” “Does he hurt you, Evie?”_ ’

She leant her head against the cool wall, and let the sobs rack her frame.

Again Ralph sat there, again, paralysed.

‘I didn’t -’

‘That’s the thing. You never spoke. I thought - I thought you could trust me.’

Ralph was silent.

‘I thought that - after your brother - I would be - ’

Ralph flared. ‘Don’t bring him up,’ he snarled. ‘This isn’t - this isn’t -’  he faltered, purpose lost. He had felt a curtain shutter against his mind, and his back prickled in uneasy recollection.

Ralph’s estranged brother, a dependable academic who had fast snatched up the role of commander, had died two years ago, in an accident, Ralph kept reminding himself, was his fault.

‘Can you not understand?’ He said, brows furrowing, ‘I - couldn’t - tell you.’

The silence expanded, and pressed against his eardrums until he heard the blood roaring in his ears.

Evie stared a few inches past him.

‘On that island, two of us died.’

Evie’s knuckles were white against her floral skirt, but she said nothing.

‘They died. And Evie, we killed them. Murdered. Only they didn’t call it that, when we got back. It was tragic, they said, but inevitable. Of course the weaker boys wouldn’t last.  And you know what? To this day, I can still feel it tugging, that darkness, that compulsion, that fear. It calls to me at night. It crawls out of shadows, in the recesses between houses.’ His shoulders trembled. ‘And do you know what he said, that officer? The one who came to rescue us?’

He turned, savage, to Evie.

‘A fucking game. He thought,’ he spat, ‘that it was all a game.’

Evie made no sound, but slowly brought her hand to her mouth.

Ralph was stooped shape in the half light, his frame quivering, as if it contained something wild, something far more fearsome than himself.

‘And now - now he’s back - and Evie, I never left. He never left. None of us did. I still feel them. The hunters. Their eyes on my back. I can’t ever escape, Evie, not ever, until I die, because if I run, they’ll come after me, and if I move to the other side of the country, they’ll be there. They’ll be waiting.’

Evie stayed silent, but took his trembling hand in his, and rubbed the clenched fingers. Like it pained her, she dragged her gaze to his.

‘This came,’ she said. With her other hand, she pulled a thin envelope out of her pocket, and offered it to him.

Ralph silently took it. The only sound was the rip of paper. He pulled out a small slip, and his knuckles grew white.

‘Ralph?’

Ralph struggled to speak. His mouth was bone dry. ‘It’s him. He wants to meet.’

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> next chapter....finally..they meet  
> holy shit its been long enough


	11. Chapter 11

Jack pushed the pen on desk half an inch to the right. And pushed it back. His fingers twitched, and he moved the pen back to its original place. The pen, in fact, had been last year’s Christmas gift from his father. It had also been used to pen the single letter he had sent to him in the last year.

The morning was bright, and he felt a thrill shiver down to his core. His foot tapped, and his fingers tingled, and he momentarily considered sitting on them like a naughty child. But Jack wasn’t a child anymore, and he had work to do. He straightened his back, and ran a hand through his hair. When Ra- _his adversary_ came in, he would be ready.

The minutes trickled away like treacle, and Jack ignored the knot in his chest. His lips vaguely hurt. He touched them, and his fingertip glistened red.

 

 ⚓

 

He was bent over a small sink in a backroom, letting the trickling water run the blood off his bitten lips when he heard rushed footfalls in the corridor outside.

He raised his head, avoiding his blue stare in the mirror,  and rubbed his face with a towel before striding into the main office, lowering himself deliberately into his vast chair. The door cracked open, and an aide stuck her head in.

‘A Lieutenant St Clair to see you, sir.’

Half of Jack inwardly snorted. Ralph could hide under as many smart titles as he liked. They wouldn’t matter when Jack decided to finish the business. The other half was a surge of blinding white panic, and his knuckles whitened as his fought to gulp down his fear. _I’m in control_. _I dictate this_.

‘Send him in.’

His pulse rose from its already frenzied beat. A trickle of sweat snaked down his spine. He fought to control his body - he had already seen him at the parade, he was in his own space, he held the power here.

_He held the power here._

_He held_ \- and the door creaked open, and object of his obsession, his eternal hunt, his madness stepped in.

He forgot to breathe.

There he was. Whom he had been searching, hunting for so long. Hungrily, his eyes took in every detail, every change from the shining boy he had known.

Ralph’s face was pale, drawn, and as he removed his cap - his hair seemed lanker, duller than before. Ralph made a fluttering movement as if to go, but under Jack's false gaze he made a cautious step into the room.

Jack swallowed. ‘Have a seat.’

He fought to control his shudder, to adopt an air of breezy informality, as if the man whose face haunted his every night was not stood before him.

Ralph had not sat.

Jack forced himself to meet his eyes. Closer, he saw they were the same azure shade that coloured his waking dreams. The skin around them was taut.  

‘Sit down,’ he said.

Ralph sat.

He smiled serenely. ‘I’m glad to see you’ve sorted out your wardrobe malfunction.’

Ralph’s face went from pink to white to crimson in the space of a few seconds, but he remained silent.

Jack’s mind raced. How was he meant to begin? How was this meant to happen? What was his reason for doing this, inviting him here, in this moment of insanity? He forced himself to breathe, and smile.

'I'm surprised you found here so fast.'

Ralph looked up from dark rimmed eyes. 'I just had to look for the biggest building in the square.' He shrugged his shoulders nonchalantly, an act so perfectly timed Jack was almost impressed.

He ignored his small show of bravado. So _changed_ he was, this study in gold and navy blue, from the boy who exuded an ease foreign to Jack, with his stiff upbringing and parental doctrine and Responsibilities.

'I've been looking for you for a long time, Ralph,' he said. 'Proved quite hard to find, despite your, ah -' he eyed the gold loop on Ralph’s sleeve, '- position.'

Ralph was looking at him like he had dropped from the moon. Brows furrowed, his eyes ran over Jack's figure until he seemed to come to a conclusion.

'This isn't real,' he said.

His breaths were ragged. Jack, against his better nature, shifted back in his seat.

'Ralph -'

But Ralph’s frame slumped. He rubbed a hand over his face,  and breathed in defeat.

'I hate to inform you, Lieutenant,' Jack said, savouring every syllable, 'that I am very much real.'

The silence numbed Ralph’s mind, and he raised his head and gazed out the window at the empty streets below. The cold light that hit the hollows of his cheeks did not reach his eyes.

'Ever since - that time, _Merridew_ ,' he said, face twisted as he tasted the name, how bitter it felt to the tongue, 'I have seen - things - in my mind, in real life, in front of me, and if I sleep by four it’s a good night. I have lived under the crushing gaze of my commander, my father, my doctors, my _brother_ and all this time,' his voice cracked,  'all this time I haven't been alive, not really. Because of you.' He drew a rattling breath,  fingers grasping at his jacket material beneath the desk.

Jack was mildly surprised. Ralph was worse than he thought, which, he realised, played to his advantage. He was desperate, and the desperate were malleable. He felt the warm glow of power seep through his core.

He shuffled his papers, and looked up at Ralph. 'I have a proposition for you.'

Ralph’s wan face became paler.

'I want you to command a ship for me.'

'But -'

'I will give you the role of commander on one condition.'

'Wh-'

'I want you to keep quiet about something for me. Something on the ship.'

Ralph shuffled in his seat. ' And what if -'

'What if you don't?' Jack gestured toward the murky drapes. 'Roger here can tell you that there's an empty cell at the Haverstock Asylum that needs filling.'

And Ralph saw, in the shadowy folds, a figure draped in the half light, and the pieces clicked together, and he felt fear. The fear grew into a pulsing beat which grew into a horror and then he was grasping at his hair, his coat, cold sweat down his back and Jack was frozen, half enjoying his newfound power, half mild concern for the man before him, which he quashed with cold formality.

'You're doing this for your country, Lieutenant. We,' he tapped his desk for emphasis, 'are relying on you. Or do you want be known as the man who caused the fall of the United Kingdom? A deserter? And you know what happens to deserters.'

‘I thought - I thought. I was - free. Of this. Of you.’ Ralph rubbed circles round his eyes. ‘Christ. _Christ_.’

Jack sat there, witness to the quiet destruction of his only hate.

'Old times are past, Ralph. And we have to forge the new world we live in.' He pressed a sheaf of papers into Ralph's trembling hand. 'You'll need these.'


End file.
